


Like Lovers Do

by Writcraft



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, Fluff, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 18:30:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19836067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Writcraft/pseuds/Writcraft
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley find new ways to occupy themselves as they take shelter from a long overdue thunderstorm.





	Like Lovers Do

**Author's Note:**

> I received several Good Omens prompts in response to my call for prompts the other day, and this fill grew into my first Good Omens fic attempt *bites nails.* Thank you to @s3dgy for the original prompt of ‘warmth, ineffable husbands, the bookshop during winter.’ I hope this doesn’t contain any content you didn’t want, but no obligation to read if it does. I'm still working my way around the Good Omens canon so please forgive any erroneous missteps, this is pretty much just feel-good smut.

_Here comes the rain again_  
_Falling on my head like a memory_  
_Falling on my head like a new emotion_  
_I want to walk in the open wind_  
_I want to talk like lovers do_  
_I want to dive into your ocean_  
_Is it raining with you?_  


Eurythmics – Here Comes The Rain Again

Erstwhile hellhound and persistent cat botherer, Dog the dog, is the first to anticipate the changing weather.

It had been an unusually close summer that bled into a dry, claustrophobic autumn. Newton Pulsifer was forced to invest in a portable fan for Dick Turpin and Anathema Device had attempted to invoke old magic with several spells designed to bring about a chilly wind. Had they kept the only copy of the _Further Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter Concerning the Worlde that Is To Com_ , they would have found a particularly smug prophecy noting that Anathema’s attempts would be to no avail, which she would have already known had she not set fire to Agnes’s work. If a prophecy were capable of sticking its tongue out at one of its creator's descendants, this prophecy would have done just that.

From Sandra and Geoffrey in the canned goods aisle at Tesco, to the writer of popular West End musical _Apocalypse Nearly_ making bored small talk with bar staff over Martinis at The Savoy, the quintessentially British question on everybody’s lips was _when is it going to rain?_ If any of those people had thought to visit an orchard in Tadfield at three o'clock on a Friday afternoon, they might have carefully counted the number of times a tiny former hellhound chased his tail. If they had engaged in a complex mathematical equation involving the circumference of Dog’s tail-chasing, the angle of a nearby branch holding the last remaining apple of autumn and the square root of the precise number of days without rain, they would have found their answer. Because absolutely nobody thought to do that, not a single member of the unsuspecting British public grabbed a brolly before leaving the house.

“Seventeen and a half minutes and fifteen seconds exactly,” Crowley notes, head tipped back to contemplate the sky. “Before it rains.”

“Thank goodness for that.” Aziraphale sighs with relief. He’s suffered through worse than a little extended sunshine—The Sahara in 1515 and the threat of hellfire and eternal damnation spring immediately to mind—but he’s rather looking forward to a change in the topic of conversation. “I do hope it won’t be another calamity.”

“Nah,” Crowley scoffs. “We’d have had wind of it by now.” He laughs.

“In any event—” Aziraphale stands, anxiously, and adjusts his bow tie. He does hate being caught in a thunderstorm.

“Better get indoors, I suppose.” Crowley seems to agree, falling into step with Aziraphale as they head for the bookshop. 

“Am I to take it you’re staying?” Aziraphale’s voice leaves him in a squeak and he clears his throat to regulate his tone. “Foul fiend,” he adds, for good measure.

It’s always helpful to set certain boundaries when it comes to Crowley, who seems to stay rather a lot these days. Averting Armageddon at least kept them both occupied. It also created a pretense of sorts, by enabling Aziraphale to assure himself time spent with Crowley was part of some higher purpose, something undertaken for the greater good of humanity. Aziraphale had always been able to find a moral justification easily to hand, if he squinted and looked at the situation sideways. Lately not even squinting, looking at things sideways and turning them upside down just for good measure does the trick. There is no rhyme or rational reason behind the way Crowley and Aziraphale have been whiling away long summer nights outside a delightful, flowery beer garden in Kensington. As the green leaves turned brown they took to regular brunch meetings at The Wolseley and wandered through autumn's blankets in Hyde Park as if that’s simply something they _do_. Like friends might—or _lovers_ , Aziraphale’s brain supplies, unhelpfully. He clears his throat and makes his way into the bookshop because Crowley is good enough to let Aziraphale go first. His demonic sensibilities must be quite dulled by the lack of rain. 

“Of course I’m staying.” Crowley settles on the sofa and puts his boot-clad feet on the coffee table. “Where else would I go?” he asks, rather proving Aziraphale’s point that they have been spending entirely too much time together.

“Where indeed?” Arizaphale turns the key in the lock and turns the sign to _closed_. If he knows Londoners at all, he has no doubt that an unexpected rainstorm and a lack of umbrellas will bring people with no intention of purchasing anything flocking to the nearest open shop. He would hate to get rainwater and damp fingerprints on his first editions. He also wants to busy himself so he can avoid studying Crowley’s legs, currently crossed at the ankle and clad in tight, black trousers that Aziraphale supposes must be fashionable. If a demon’s legs could have human properties, Aziraphale would say they have a rakish insolence to them. Looking at them for too long makes his mouth dry.

“I’m assuming you have booze?” Crowley picks up a book and idly flicks through it. “The good stuff, none of that regurgitated Chateauneuf. It doesn’t half taste funny on the second go.” 

“Naturally.” Aziraphale shuffles around with his favourite crystal decanter. Despite the growing chill in the air, he puts his struggle to meet Crowley’s eyes and the hot flush in his neck down to cloudy skies, changing seasons and the last vestiges of the warmest autumn on record.

It’s just changing weather, Aziraphale tells himself. 

They spend their time in companionable silence as swollen grey clouds move across the sky and blot out the sun, leaving the bookshop dark. Aziraphale lights a couple of candles—carefully covered and held firmly in place to avoid any further fires—and settles back in his chair. He watches as the shadows from the flames creep up the walls. He and Crowley are not drunk, not yet, but a glass and a half of the strong, sweet port has settled Aziraphale’s earlier nerves somewhat. 

“I’ve been thinking a cottage might be nice,” Crowley says. It breaks their quiet vigil for rain. 

“A cottage?” Aziraphale takes a careful sip of his drink. Crowley’s feigned innocence belies something less than innocent slithering beneath the surface. He sounds far too casual for Aziraphale believe there isn’t some evil doing involved. “For what purpose?”

“Somewhere in the South Downs.” Crowley waves a hand, his drink sloshing in the glass. Aziraphale is used to Crowley's expansive gestures and gave him a tall tumbler, instead of the delicate sherry glasses he keeps for himself. “I can’t be expected to stay in this bookshop forever and you’re far too nice to my plants. They used to be terrified. Now I’m lucky if they’re mildly worried.”

“What’s wrong with my bookshop?” Aziraphale asks, crossly. He mentally thanks Crowley for reminding him to go and whisper soothing words to the plants forthwith. Mildly worried won’t do at all. He can go home with Crowley after the storm, perhaps. Crowley has more than one bed, unlike Aziraphale. It makes his flat the proper choice for any unexpected sleepovers. “I doubt the South Downs has a first era collection of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.”

“You can keep your shop.” Crowley slips off his sunglasses, contemplating Aziraphale, his lips curved into a smile. “The cottage would be ours.”

“ _Ours_?” Aziraphale tries the word out, round and laden with promise as it slips between his lips into the still room. Living with Crowley? Aziraphale’s heart beats like wings. “Preposterous.”

“We’ve made it through several thousand years together,” Crowley points out, low and inviting. “Not that daft, is it?”

“You expect us to—” Aziraphale searches for the right words. “Simply start _cottaging_ together?”

Crowley chokes on a mouthful of his port, unsuccessfully trying to mask a snort of laughter. Aziraphale sniffs. He doesn’t see what’s so funny. 

“Steady on, angel.” Crowley licks his lips, a flare of heat behind his eyes. “Although if you want to try it, I can’t say I’d mind.”

“You’re being impossible.” Aziraphale stands and makes a show of rearranging an untidy stack of books to avoid looking at Crowley. Perhaps _cottaging_ was a poor choice of words. Not for the first time, Aziraphale finds himself discombobulated by Crowley. He always moves _so fast_. A cottage indeed. Like they’re friends— _or lovers_ , his brain reminds him.

“Is that a no to the cottage, then?” Crowley sighs, disappointment lacing his words.

“I can’t take a decision like that lightly.” Aziraphale checks his watch. It should start raining any minute now. He hopes the rain will clear the strange electricity in the air and wipe away all reckless dreams of cottages in the South Downs. The sky trembles as though it has its own views on an angel and a demon setting up house together. “Oh good. It looks like we’re going to get a proper storm.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” At some point between Aziraphale anxiously moving his books from messy piles to neat ones, Crowley closed the distance between them to stand behind Aziraphale. He’s near enough that turning around would be…dangerous. 

“I’ve always enjoyed a thunderstorm. A mild one, naturally. Not the kind that washes away Mesopotamia. This is just the sort of storm required to freshen everything up. How delightful. I wonder if it’s raining in the South Downs?” 

Aziraphale is fully aware he’s babbling. It’s largely on account of the fact that Crowley’s long fingers started stroking against Aziraphale’s waist midway through his storm-related observations.

“Hmm,” Crowley replies. “Angel?”

“You really mustn’t tease so!” Aziraphale turns as quickly as he can manage. He’s aiming for cross, but hovers somewhere between breathless and eager. 

“I’m not teasing.” Crowley frowns. “At least I don’t think I am. I’d say this is the very opposite of teasing.” His breath carries the sweet, boozy notes of expensive port. It’s warm against Aziraphale’s skin, now tingling pleasantly as a result of the heat rising through his body and settling in his cheeks. 

The storm isn’t minded to wait for Aziraphale to collect himself sufficiently to respond. The sky thunders hard enough for the force of it to travel through Aziraphale’s spine, moving through the shop with a dusty rattle. The first of the rain begins to patter against the windows, the fat droplets landing like hail. People scurry outside the shop in a blur of motion, newspapers and jackets pulled over their heads. A passer-by taps on the shop window, nose pressed against the glass which is just dusty enough on the inside to obscure Aziraphale and Crowley’s current position. A neat little trick. Aziraphale can see out, but nobody can see in. _You wanted the privacy_ , his brain niggles. _Just in case_.

“I think they’re waiting for me to open the door,” Aziraphale says. He pushes all other thoughts firmly to one side.

“Yes.” Crowley’s voice is smoother than usual, his response elongated and sibilant. He trails his fingers down Aziraphale's chest. “I think perhaps they are.”

“Oh Crowley.” Aziraphale sighs with gentle resignation. Desire between angels and demons. There’s something so _ineffable_ about it all. “I’ll never be allowed back into heaven after this. Archangel Gabriel will be most displeased.”

“I don’t think my lot would be thrilled either.” Crowley’s lips are unexpectedly warm against Aziraphale’s jaw, his mouth damp. His voice dips and wavers. “Fraternising with an angel. Not that there's really a _my lot_ and _your lot_ anymore. It's just the two of us, and a hell of a lot of rain.”

“I suppose we always have been—” Aziraphale considers his words. It’s very difficult to think of clever things to say with Crowley’s fingers slipping over the buttons on his waistcoat. “ _Fraternisers_ ,” he settles on at last.

“Call us whatever you want, angel.” Crowley’s gaze is fire, but the good kind. His eyes linger on Aziraphale’s lips as he pulls back a little. His wonderfully long fingers continue to open Aziraphale’s waistcoat, deft and sure. “We don’t require human labels.” 

Aziraphale’s breath hitches as Crowley reaches up and carefully unknots Aziraphale’s bowtie. There’s a surprising tenderness to Crowley’s movements. Aziraphale imagines he must look very decadent with his bowtie loose around his neck and his waistcoat unbuttoned. The last time he looked so dishevelled was at the end of the May Ball, Trinity College, Cambridge. That was 1906, if he recalls correctly. He shared a very fine single-malt with a young Physics Fellow.

“I imagined you would be rougher,” Aziraphale observes, not fully meaning to say so out loud. He always thought that’s how it would be, when hell and heaven came together on earth. A raw fusion, a desperate fight of a thing. He didn’t expect compassionate fingers loosening his clothes, or hot, searching kisses keeping the first chill of winter at bay.

“What else did you imagine?” Crowley asks, amused. 

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale laughs, clutching the desk he’s now firmly pressed against to keep himself steady. “All manner of things. Quite sinful, really.”

“I don’t know about that,” Crowley scoffs. “People throw around the word _sin_ far too easily if you ask me. They twist it to suit their own purposes.”

“You might be right. If you consider its etymology—”

The heavens properly open as Crowley cuts Aziraphale off with a kiss. Aziraphale’s first instinct is to be offended by Crowley’s obvious disinterest in the nuggets of information he likes to share over a glass of something chilled and fizzy at The Ritz. Any such churlishness is quickly chased away by the fierce heat that pulses through Aziraphale’s body at the realisation that Crowley is kissing him and Aziraphale, miraculously, is kissing back. 

Crowley’s mouth is warm and eager. His lips carry the beguiling sweetness of port, the taste of changing weather and the gravity of the years that stretch before, and beyond. He tastes old, and young, his mouth yielding but firm, his tongue slick and hot against Aziraphale’s own as his breath stutters and groans. He’s the most delicious temptation Aziraphale has ever known. Aziraphale pushes his hands into Crowley’s hair—there were times he thought he might willingly discorporate himself to get such an opportunity—and it’s softer than hair fashioned into such a pleasing quiff should be. It’s so entirely like Crowley to use his supernatural powers for vanity. A simple hair wax would never do. 

“Do you intend we do this as humans might?” It’s a triumph that Aziraphale keeps his voice somewhat level, given the warmth of his lips, the heat in other parts of his body and the delicacy of the subject matter. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Crowley growls. He pauses, lifting his lips from the particularly sensitive spot on Aziraphale’s neck keeping them previously occupied. “Err, if this is alright?”

Crowley gestures to himself, all tight, black jeans and louche elegance. His shirt is rumpled and unbuttoned to the navel, which Aziraphale barely remembers doing but supposes he must have. He's never been able to think particularly clearly when Crowley is close. Crowley pushes a hand through his hair, his lips pressed together and a flicker of worry crossing his features. It pleases Aziraphale to know Crowley is nervous too, even if he’d sooner enter a church than admit it. _Alright_ , indeed. _I would dive into oceans and move the earth just to do this with you_ , Azirphale thinks to himself.

“Quite alright, my dear,” is what he says out loud. He plucks open the last of the buttons on Crowley’s shirt, sliding his hand over the smooth skin beneath. “ _Oh_! How...lovely.”

They fall together once more, shuffling inelegantly towards a spot Aziraphale can really get his back against. It takes them far away from the windows and any curious eyes, into the depths of the bookshop where they cocoon themselves amidst the stacks and the shelves, kissing, grasping, tugging one another as close as they can manage without resorting to any supernatural trickery. They have, after all, been inside one another, in a manner of speaking. This time it’s different. A connection that’s both human and not, their lips finding the courage to say the things neither one has ever said out loud. _Hold me until the stars go out_ , Aziraphale pleads, in kisses rather than words.

Crowley’s response is to sink to his knees, hands firm on Aziraphale’s thighs. “Too fast?” His lips curve into a damnable smile.

“To the contrary,” Aziraphale replies. “Your timing—” he stops, sucking in a sharp breath as Crowley makes quick work of opening his trousers. “Your timing is impeccable,” he manages.

Crowley responds with a _uh-huh_ or perhaps an _mmm_ of agreement. He licks his lips and takes Aziraphale between them, pressing his fingers into Aziraphale’s buttocks, pulling him closer, deeper. If this is what hell feels like, Aziraphale never wants to leave. The rain batters the little Soho shop and tremors travel through Aziraphale’s body like the currents from an electric storm. He pushes his hands into Crowley’s hair—the softness of it catching him off guard once more—and bucks forward into Crowley’s throat. He watches himself disappear between spit-slick lips, stretched wide and accommodating. Lips that have travelled along his throat. Lips that have formed sentences which kept Aziraphale warm for thousands of years. Lips that smirk, spit, sneer, taunt, laugh and love. Lips that curve into secret smiles, promises hidden by the teasing upward slant of them. Lips that boldly spoke of the future when the word _ours_ entered a dusty bookshop in Soho where an angel and a demon drank port and waited for the rain to fall.

 _Promises_. That’s another thing those lips have made, over and over. To watch Crowley work his mouth to herald a new intimacy between them requires a blissful acceptance of one's own destiny, Aziraphale realises. He submits to it willingly, capitulating at last to the yearning at his core that burns brighter than heaven’s stars. Desire is a beautiful, terrible, confusing thing. _Ineffable_. Aziraphale has always considered there to be a strangeness behind those urges of his human body, the way they would settle with such specificity on his handful of past paramours, and on Crowley in particular. His body has always responded when Crowley looks at him just so, reducing Aziraphale to aching bones and a desperate heart, untethered in a restless storm. 

It occurs to Aziraphale as he loses himself in white-hot pleasure that it's touch that tether's him. Crowley’s touch, specifically. Firm hands hold Aziraphale still, under the glorious machinations of confident lips and the slide of Crowley's mouth over Aziraphale's eager flesh. When Aziraphale puts his hand behind him and tries to stutter out a warning, his hand settles on leather. He lets his fingertips slide against the familiar surface. That too, grounds him. He likes to be surrounded with old, weathered things. They bring him comfort when the world spins too quickly beneath his feet. He reaches his climax with that thought in mind, his hand twisted in Crowley’s hair and his legs barely able to keep him upright. 

“ _Touch me_.” Crowley gets to his feet, stumbles and falls against Aziraphale. Their lips fuse together once more and Crowley’s mouth tastes like salty seas. Aziraphale fumbles with Crowley’s belt and wraps his fingers around him. Perhaps Aziraphale is the rough one, with his coarse, uncertain palm and clumsy strokes? Perhaps—

“Oh _fuck_.” Crowley growls low under his breath, spilling into Aziraphale’s fist. He seems quite unperturbed by the lack of finesse, and Aziraphale’s cheeks heat with pride.

“Well that was rather unexpected.” Aziraphale pulls up his trousers, fingers trembling as he tries to button them again.

“Is there a bed in this shop of yours or do I have to perform a miracle?” Crowley stills Aziraphale’s hand, a smile on those beautiful lips. _Fiendish_ lips, Aziraphale corrects himself. Not beautiful, good grief! “What’s the hurry to get dressed again, angel?”

“I have absolutely no idea,” Aziraphale murmurs. “You thought we might—?” He trails off, the unspoken question lingering hopefully.

“Yeah,” Crowley replies. He rubs his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand, still modestly clutching his trousers closed. “I thought we might.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” Aziraphale smiles, his cheeks still warm. The _might_ after all, was rather high on his list of previous imaginings. “This cottage in the South Downs.” He keeps his voice light and conversational. “One bed, or two?”

“Property’s expensive in the South Downs,” Crowley grouses. “I’m not made of money.”

“Am I to take it you’re buying?” Aziraphale’s heart flutters. He does hope they can have a garden. He would so enjoy a nice gin and Dubonnet, watching bumble bees gather on the Rhododendrons.

“I thought you couldn’t take such a big decision lightly?” Crowley grins, pleased with himself.

“I’ve taken hastier decisions,” Aziraphale replies. He eyes the bed that has appeared out of nowhere. He’s rather pleased. He's not sure his shaky legs could manage the rickety stairs, and he left the iron out that morning. There are many things he looks forward to sharing with Crowley, but the fact he irons his underpants isn't one of them.

“Hasty? It only took six thousand years,” Crowley mutters. He pulls Aziraphale towards the bed. “It’s still raining outside. We might be here for hours, sheltering from the storm.”

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale ponders their unfortunate predicament. “Whatever will we do to while away the time?”

“I’ve got one or two ideas,” Crowley replies. “I’ve had a few imaginings of my own,” he adds, throatily enough to send a shiver of pleasure down Aziraphale’s spine.

“No doubt. You’re a very sinful being,” Aziraphale says, around a beaming smile. “Such fiendish beasts are prone to carnal desires.”

Crowley arches a disbelieving eyebrow. “Oi! I’d hardly say I’m the only one who’s—”

In a moment of boldness Aziraphale cuts Crowley off with a firm kiss. Crowley’s response is an _unf_ of pleasure, and they tumble together onto the bed.

Like friends—and lovers—do.

**Author's Note:**

> come and say hi on [tumblr if you like!](https://writcraft.tumblr.com/) | [my ineffable husbands Spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/61UocIC6Jlv0qbi3admNz2?si=ccw_GUtfR8iGZbDjXMX1hw)


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